


Breath a Lie

by quantumgirl



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha!Bilbo, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, But mention of your usual Omega fertility, Gender Issues, M/M, Minor Character Death, No mpreg, Omega!Thorin, Slow Build, i like happy endings, the Quest for Erebor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-17 05:35:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3517343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quantumgirl/pseuds/quantumgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Omegas are not kings. In all the races and realms of Middle Earth, especially in the roughened and outcast race of dwarves, omegas are protected, hid away, safe. But Thorin Oakenshield has never been one to let fate dictate his actions, at least not without a fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breath a Lie

**Author's Note:**

> AU with A/B/O dynamics. This is going to follow the storyline of the book and/or movies, but I can't write complete retellings, so I'm not going to even venture into that. Mostly this is going to deal with gender issues with a bunch of sappiness along the way. 
> 
> I'll update the rating as this goes along.
> 
> To my readers of other fics, don't worry. I'm still writing my other fic as well. :) but ao3 was gonna delete this draft if I didn't go ahead and post it

_The pull on my flesh was just too strong_  
_stifled the choice and the air in my lungs_  
_better not to breathe than to breathe a lie_  
_'Cause when I open my body I breathe a lie_

Thorin had felt sick all day.

When he woke, he was disoriented, his eyes not focusing properly on anything for almost a full minute. Once he had donned the many layers he wore to go about his business, he felt mostly normal, if a bit nauseous. He assumed it was probably bad meat; maybe that deer Frerin had killed earlier this week. But Dwarves had iron stomachs; he was not overly concerned. 

He went about his normal schedule. First were meetings with his father, a dull affair for all involved. Before lunch, lessons with Balin on politics and negotiation were always a bright point for Thorin, who had always taken to history and lessons quite well, much to the surprise of many. In the afternoons, he practiced with his weaponry, training with the youths of his age—including his best friend, Dwalin—and sometimes with his brother Frerin. 

“I wanna learn archery,” Frerin told him that afternoon, while trying to lift Dwalin’s war hammer. 

Thorin grinned at his little brother, ruffling his hair. “My little Elf,” he laughed. 

Frerin frowned at the epithet, glaring from under a fringe of dark blonde hair. “It is a good range weapon.”

“I know,” Thorin told him, flipping a new axe from his right to left hand. “I will try with you; I have never shot an arrow before.” 

They made plans to practice archery with some of the best archers in their company later that week—of which there were admittedly few. Frerin proceeded to talk his ear off about the kinds of bows and arrows available among Men and Elves, and Thorin realized that his brother had quite possibly been working up to admitting his interest in the unconventional weapon. 

As the brothers left the training arena, their sister, who had been practicing with the swords group, joined them. Her beard was almost as thick as Frerin’s these days, which she mocked her slightly older brother for mercilessly. Thorin still had both of them beat with a thick beard he had held in a golden clasp at his chin.

“Dur-rugnul Frerin,” Dís said, with a smirk. 

Frerin shoved her. “I’ve got a beard.” 

“He wants to use a bow and arrow as well,” Thorin added with a smile. “Maybe he is an Elf. I have always thought his blond hair favored Thranduil.”

“I am going to tell father.” Frerin crossed his arms, looking about ten years younger than he was. 

“Thorin is going to be crowned prince come tomorrow. Then he shall say whatever he wants,” Dís grinned. 

“I cannot believe father is crowning you before you present,” Frerin grumbled. 

“There hasn’t been an Omega born in the line of Durin since the Binnadan Bashkyarâs,” Dís scoffed. “And it is not like _Thorin_ is going to present Omega. Imagine it.” 

Frerin giggled. 

“It will be good for the people,” Thorin said, realizing that he sounded much like their father and grandfather as he spoke. “Seeing the continuation of our line is comforting now that we are banished from Erebor.”

Dís rolled her eyes. “Yes, yes, your majesty. We have had the lecture.”

When Thorin knelt before his father the next day, he was even more nauseous than the previous day. His complexion had been pallid when he woke that morning, even his mother had noticed. But a coronation meant that there was no time for worrying or fussing. 

When he stood with the thin silver and gold coronet looping over his hair, he could hear Dís whistling and Frerin shouting cheers of Thorin’s name. He forgot his uneasy stomach as he faced his people with a smile, greeting the cheers and laughter with the grace of a son of Durin. 

That night, after he refused many offers of ale and pipe weed, Thorin collapsed in his bed nonetheless feeling drunk. He groaned into his own pillow, the scent suddenly off-putting. 

He slept briefly, awaking still wearing the leather jerkin he had worn under his armor that day. A scent lingered in his nostrils, new and different. When he shifted, something spiked deep in his stomach, a burning that he had never felt before.

His mouth was dry, and he fumbled to the washroom he shared with Frerin, splashing water on his face. He looked at his own reflection in the polished metal before him, and as his blue eyes stared back through fields of red, he _knew_.

“Fuck,” Thorin whispered, his own expression foreign to him. 

When he made his way to his parent’s room, he was surprisingly stable for feeling like his entire life was a lie. 

When his mother opened the door, it only took her a few seconds to notice, to understand. 

“’Amad,” Thorin whispered brokenly. 

“Oh my inúdoy,” his mother said softly, reaching her arms out to him. Thorin fell into them, feeling too young, not himself. The steady sound of her heartbeat was a comfort, easing the erratic rhythm in his own chest. 

“What is this?” His father’s voice echoed through the room, sending ice down Thorin’s spine. 

“Thorin has…presented, Thráin.” His mother eased back from him, keeping a firm hand in between his shoulders as he faced his father. 

“That is—” Thráin stopped suddenly, his words halting as suddenly as his feet. The king’s nostrils flared, the senses of an Alpha springing to life as the scent of a new Omega filled his head. The dark green eyes blinked disbelievingly. 

“I named you heir _today_ ,” the king choked out. 

“I did not know, ’adad. I did not know,” Thorin pleaded, although he was not sure for what he was pleading. 

“He is still Thorin. He is still your eldest son, your heir by right,” his mother said gently, her hand still firmly on Thorin’s back.

“He is an _Omega_ ,” Thráin spat the word. “Omegas are not kings.”

“The people love Thorin,” his mother reminded.

Thráin sighed. His nose was wrinkled in distaste, but his edge smoothed into something less angry. “Yes, but that does not mean that the people will follow an Omega.”

“I will take the suppressors.” Thorin felt something resolve in his chest. He could work around this. “The ones Alphas take when they do not mate.”

Thráin watched his son, the green of his eyes calculating. “Every Omega is needed for—”

“No.” Thorin shook his head immediately. “I will not bear dwarflings.”

“You would be so selfish?” Thráin crossed his arms. “We have not had population growth in over a century, Thorin. We need all of the young we can get.”

“We are in exile! I am needed more elsewhere.”

Thráin did not respond immediately. He took a deep breath, suddenly looking much older than he was. “And you have done incredibly well. Your ’amad is right. But Thorin—”

“The _suppressors_ , ’adad. Nothing has to change. I shall smell like a Beta, except to Elves, but I can avoid Elves.” Now that he had a plan, the nausea that had been plaguing him felt suddenly bearable. His new scent, crisp and sharp in his nose, was beginning to feel less foreign. 

Thráin sighed, rubbing his bushy eyebrows. “Your grandfather and I may yet need you for Khazad-dûm.”

Hope blossomed in Thorin’s chest. He nodded, stepping away from his mother, falling to a knee before his king. 

“I swore fealty to you today,” he said solemnly. “Give me the herbs, and nothing will change. Dís can have children…or Frerin. I will take no spouse; no one shall ever know.” 

A life of bachelorhood was not uncommon among Dwarves. When they lost most of their Omegas to swords of Orcs in generations past, their population dropped and Alphas began to far outnumber Omegas. Such disparity led to lower marriage and birth rates as well as the necessity of Alpha suppressors, herbs that would dampen the effects of unbridled and unbonded Alpha heat. 

“Alright,” the king nodded. “Stay here. We should not run the risk of you running into anyone like…this.” Thorin winced. “Gróin should have herbs available presently.”

“Will you tell him?” Thorin asked, his heart thudding heavily in his chest. 

“No,” Thráin said, his voice heavy in the room. “We will tell as few as possible. For now, not even your siblings. No one else need know for now. I can get the herbs you need with little suspicion.”

Word spread throughout their settlement in Dunland. Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór was a Beta. The news was somewhat surprising, as the willful and strong young heir was expected to be an Alpha like his father and grandfather before him. But a Beta could swing an axe as well as an Alpha, so most cared little. 

Aside from handing his son boxes of herbs every few months, both Thorin and Thráin continued on as if nothing had changed. Indeed, Thorin hardly ever considered his undesired biology except in passing. As he had sworn not to marry, it meant little to him. He would rule his people, smith great weapons, and love his sister’s and brother’s children should they have them. He did not need anything else. 

 

* * *

The War of Orcs and Dwarves began only a few years later. The Battle of Azanulbizar came to pass, and overnight, Thorin II, son of Thráin and brother of Frerin, became Thorin Oakenshield, King-in-Exile. 

Thorin decided to lead his people to Ered Luin with his sister by his side. She had not spoken much since the battle, angry that she had not been there to defend Frerin or Thrór and utterly furious that they were not searching for Thráin any longer. 

“How is mother?” Thorin asked, his voice hollow, emotionless. They had been on the road for a month. 

Dís frowned, as if she could not understand the words. “Fine,” she said eventually. 

Thorin nodded, looking back forward, an endless road it seemed. 

“They are calling you Oakenshield.” Dís glanced at the burned and beaten shield of oak he had strapped to the back of his pony. 

“Blame Dwalin,” Thorin said gruffly. Before, such a statement may have been accompanied by a smirk, but Thorin seemed to have forgotten how to smile. How was he supposed to feel joy without immediately wanting to turn to Frerin, share the joke with his golden little brother? He could only think of the sticky blood that matted the blonde locks and darkened the blue eyes. 

“I worry about you,” Dís said softly, the heat in her eyes gentle for the first time since Thorin had told her about Frerin. 

Thorin twitched. “I am alright, namadith. Merely tired.”

Dís nodded and let the journey lapse back into silence. 

In another week, Thorin had to seek out the healer, Gróin. Any anxiety about speaking with the older dwarf was too difficult to process; his body and mind were still too wrought from battle.

“Gróin, may we speak?” Thorin’s voice held all of the authority of a King, but none of the life it once had.

The healer was hunkered down around a campfire with his sons, Óin and Glóin. They had been laughing about something before Thorin interrupted. Once he may have joined them before getting down to business, but there was no time now. 

The healer smiled at him. “A’course, laddie” His voice gentled. “I mean, your majesty, of course.” 

When they were away from the others, Gróin raised an eyebrow at his king. “How are you, Thorin?” 

Thorin winced at the kindness, as if he had been struck. “Fine,” he murmured. 

“What do you need?” something akin to suspicion wormed its way into Gróin’s voice. 

“I—” Thorin started, the words stuck in his throat. He had not spoken of such things in so long. 

Gróin was patient, waiting for Thorin to form the words. But the young king seemed struck dumb. The sounds of the night filled in all the spaces that Thorin seemed incapable of filling. 

“Your father used to get herbs from me every few months,” Gróin said softly, after Thorin did not speak. 

The younger dwarf nodded. “I would get the same,” Thorin said.

“I am at your majesty’s behest,” Gróin said softly. “But as a healer, I must ask why a Beta needs such medicines.”

“That is none of your business,” the king responded sharply. 

“Thorin, if you are an Alpha Durin, I do not—” Thorin winced at the words. He had never been great at subterfuge. 

“Oh,” Gróin murmured softly. He let the truth sit in the air between them for a moment.

“You must not tell—” Thorin began sharply.

“Of course not,” Gróin said sincerely. “I would keep your secrets. You are my king, Thorin Oakenshield.” 

Thorin released a breath he did not know he had been holding. 

“But Thorin, these medicines can make…well, they can be dangerous for Omegas.” Gróin paused, trying to learn anything from Thorin’s expression. “Your fertility—”

“Is not a concern,” Thorin cut off. “I will take no spouse. I am King; that is my vocation.” 

Gróin nodded slowly. “Alright. As long as you are aware.” The old dwarf smiled, clapping Thorin on the shoulder. “I will get you a new stock soon, before we reach the Mountains, surely.” 

“Thank you, Gróin,” Thorin said sincerely. “You are a loyal dwarf. I am lucky to call you one of my people.”

“I have happily been one my whole life.” Gróin’s bright orange whiskers moved with his smile. 

“But tell me,” Thorin swallowed heavily. “Are you not concerned about my…ability to lead?”

Gróin considered the young dwarf before him, too young for the mantles he was carrying. “I am concerned that you are young and have lost far too much already,” he said softly. “But I have never worried about your ability to lead us. Anyone who doubted you does no longer, Thorin called Oakenshield. You are strong.”

Thorin nodded.

“Remember Omegas once fought alongside Alphas and Betas,” Gróin said softly. “We used to be better than the Men in this, treating our Omegas the same as any other dwarf.”

Gróin was aware Thorin knew his histories well, but the old dwarf continued speaking anyway.

“Many would say that such equality is what led to our downfall, but I would say it was our reaction to the loss of so many Omegas that did so. We have shamed Omegas by protecting them too fiercely. A dwarf that is not allowed to smith or fight or mine is no dwarf any longer.”

Thorin furrowed his brow. “The Orcs would target what few Omegas we have if we allowed them to fight again.”

Gróin sighed. “Do you not think they should make that decision for themselves?”

With that, Gróin left the king to himself in the darkness. Thorin stood for a while, reeling. He had not considered gender in so long; it hardly seemed to matter now, with this dead brother and grandfather, with his father missing, with his people looking up to him and saying ‘Oakenshield.’ He shook his head; musings about such things were not important to him anymore. He stood by the oath he made to his father years ago. 

Thorin was a son of Durin, first and foremost, son of Thráin. He would lead his people to Ered Luin, and they would flourish. Durin’s folk would be proud once again. That Thorin Oakenshield was an Omega would be something left out of histories if he had anything to say about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Pardon my use of Khuzdul. Here are some translations if needed:
> 
> dur-rugnul = beardless, an insult (or harmless sibling jab)  
> Binnadan Bashkyarâs = childless years, when the Orcs decided to really screw with the Dwarves and kill of their Omega population  
> 'adad = father  
> 'amad = mother  
> inúdoy = son  
> namadith = sister (young)


End file.
